


Like Sleep To the Freezing

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Terminal Illnesses, written for a friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 06:43:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17483105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: Every second is a sluggish drop into an ocean so vast he doesn’t know where it ends. The 70 years he spent tethered to HYDRA could be a blink of an eye in comparison to how long the hours feel, waiting for you to open your eyes again, to come back again, to live again. He hasn’t given up on you getting better, he never will, but sometimes… sometimes it’s better to wish for living and then rejoice when it’s a day of more than just that, when it’s smiles and jokes and a blush to your skin so lovely he goes a little moon-eyed.





	Like Sleep To the Freezing

**Author's Note:**

> Another cross-post from Tumbl, and this one is so very close to my heart. I wrote it for a dear friend who was in the hospital fighting cancer. We were so far away from each other, and I wanted to do something for her. This is the fic that came out of that desire to help, and her feedback on it has meant more than anything in the world. I hope you will enjoy it, too.

Bucky starts awake, his eyes immediately going to you, holding his breath until he can hear your shallow inhales and exhales. You don’t really sleep, not truly. It is medically induced, the result of a chemical cocktail because even though the treatment leaves you exhausted, sleep evades you save for cat naps that do little to give you the rest you really need. He wishes he could give you what you need, that the life force flowing in his veins, however bastardized, could help you. He even asked Stark and Banner, ready to brave the medical facilities of the tower, to sit in a chair and be poked and prodded like all those times before he broke free. He hasn’t been there since his last check-up after Wakanda, the room sterile and intimidating, making him break out into cold sweat. He swore he’d only go back if it was absolutely necessary. You fall into that category.

_“Spa- Barnes, I… It doesn’t work like that. I’m sorry. Trust me, I’d want it to work, but even I have my limits, much as it pains me to admit.”_

Of course it doesn’t work. He’s got something potentially life-saving in him, and it can’t be used. Between him and Steve, the world could probably be saved a few times over, if only someone could truly understand the properties of the serum that has saved them again and again. His own serum is too unstable, tweaked and reshuffled to shit by HYDRA. He is a fluke to have survived it. Hell, when HYDRA wanted to make more of it, more of  _him_ , they didn’t even try to extract the serum from him. They had him kill the man in possession of the last pure sample of the original, extracted from Steve’s blood. Now all the scientists who understood it are dead, the new Winter Soldiers are all dead, any and all leads are dead, and he’s helpless.

Rubbing his eyes, he lets out a sigh, stretches in the uncomfortable chair. He’s not sure how long he’s been here now, the days have all blended together. Steve tried to get him to go home a few days in, that much he remembers. Something about the staff and visiting hours and regulations. It doesn’t matter. Bucky doesn’t want to leave you. He sits faithfully by your side so you never have to be alone, a solid presence even when you’re asleep. The doctors and nurses have stopped asking him to leave. Sometimes, some open their mouths as if to berate him and order him out. On a good day, they get a glare and quickly shuffle out of the room. On a bad day, they get the pleading look of a man desperate for a break, for the small token of kindness that is pretending he’s not there.

Your arms lie prone by your sides, pale in the dim light of the room. He remember going to see Snow White back in ‘37, his parents making him take Becca because they were busy. He thought it was embarrassing, he was 20 for gosh sakes, but Becca had looked at him, so eager to go see a picture that Bucky didn’t have the heart to say no. Seeing you now, in bed, lying still with barely your breaths to show you’re alive, it makes him think of that scene in the movie, with Snow White in her glass coffin, pale and beautiful and de-  _no, just sleeping_. You’re just sleeping. You’re Snow White, and you will wake up and all will be well.

It pains him to notice how you’ve changed, how colour has drained from your cheeks, how your limbs have thinned despite efforts to keep your body fed and your muscles from atrophying. He’s careful, oh so careful, when he gently takes your hand in his, your dainty palm like spun glass against his rough one, and lifts your covers to tuck them inside. The treatments take their toll, messes with circulation, makes your hands and feet cold.

Sometimes, when there’s a really good day, when you spark and fill with energy, you’ll coax him into crawling onto the bed so you can burrow up next to him.

_“Come on, Bucky, you’re a walking space heater, and I am in need of heat, you’re not doing any good sitting there like a statue!”_

You always have to cajole him and tease him a little before he gets over his fear of crushing you, and then it’s all gentle coaching to get him just the way you want him, shifting tubes and cables out of the way, making sure none of you are hanging with half their ass off the side of the bed. It’s a logistical nightmare, but god, does he love it when he can hold you like that, wrap you up in his arms and pretend he’s actually being helpful and making things better.

Mostly, you’d just lie there, content in his embrace, savouring the warmth and letting it seep into your bones. Once, you fell asleep, truly and well, and Bucky thought he’d never seen anything so serene and beautiful. Your eyes blinking lazily, jaw tensing to suppress a yawn, and then finally a few soft words that he couldn’t make out if they were actual words or just sleepy murmurs before you drifted, relaxed and content. It’s his single source of comparison for knowing whether you’re asleep for real or not. There was softness in your features, your body curled up and your breaths irregular in a way that could never scare him. It’s the way it’s supposed to be; by turns soft and almost like little huffs, by turns long and deep, interspersed with little breaks of snores or holding your breath for no damn reason. The medical sleep scares him. It’s monotone, too even,  _forced_.

A nurse comes in, a new face, and Bucky barely even flinches, his reflexes too dulled from not enough sleep. He sleeps in short lurches, not able to find the time. He doesn’t want to sleep when you’re awake, because he wants to spend every waking moment committing you fully to his memory, wants to be there when you’re up and smiling and goddamn fighting to win. He doesn’t want to sleep when you sleep, too afraid that he’d wake up and you would be gone, and he would be all alone without a proper goodbye. The threat is there, hovering like a mirage that sometimes makes it seem a lot closer than it is.

_“She’s responding to treatments.”_

_“It’s hard to say, but she’s young and otherwise healthy.”_

_“We’re very hopeful.”_

Bucky wants there to be more than that, but he’ll take it. He’ll take every guess and every hypothesis and every tentative expression of hope and weave it all into something that looks and feels like real comfort to wrap around you two. This is a fight and he’s always been good at those, but suddenly all of his strength, all of his enhancements are for naught, and all he can do is hope and hope and hope and hope and-

“How long have you known each other?”

The question takes him by surprise, not because he’s lost in thought, at least not fully. No, it causes him to hesitate because he’s not sure what to say. Objectively… He looks over at you, giving you a small smile. Objectively, he knows it’s been less than a year. The months he’s known you can be counted on both his hands, and yet they stretch on every time he thinks about you, about the way you have fit yourself into his days, into his life, into his heart.

Subjectively, you’ve been here for longer. Subjectively, you’ve been the echo of laughter in his mind since he broke loose from HYDRA, a beacon to lead him home. Subjectively, you’ve always been there. A comforting presence in a corner of his soul.

“A while.”

It’s the best he can manage, treading the line between what he knows to be true and what he feels is true. The nurse nods, looks through your chart, checks your lines, your IV, your readings. At least she’s not asking him to leave. Bucky briefly wonders if they’ve circulated a memo. “Don’t poke the almost-Avenger.”

“Something funny?”

He must have failed to keep his smirk internal. Biting the insides of his cheeks for a few seconds helps with composure, and he quietly shakes his head.

“She’s lucky to have you. Many want to stay, but few would actually do it,” the nurse points out.

She looks like she’s done with her round, but she lingers. Bucky’s not sure what to think about it.

“Most people don’t have a metal arm that intimidates the shit outta hospital staff,” he answers, doesn’t mean to sound that threatening.

The nurse starts, her eyes widening minutely. She doesn’t want to show him she’s scared, but he’s trained too well, has seen this reaction too many times. Fuck.

“Sorry,” he mutters, bringing his hands to his face to cover it, an appeasement, a sign of non-aggression. “Tired.”

Then, predictably: “You should get some rest.”

“Maybe later.” More appeasement. She doesn’t need to know the details.

The nurse nods, slipping quietly out of the room without another word. Bucky sighs, leaning back in his chair, pulling out his phone to check the time. It’s still early morning. You will be sleeping for a couple of hours still before the drugs wear off.

Every second is a sluggish drop into an ocean so vast he doesn’t know where it ends. The 70 years he spent tethered to HYDRA could be a blink of an eye in comparison to how long the hours feel, waiting for you to open your eyes again, to come back again, to  _live_ again. He hasn’t given up on you getting better, he never will, but sometimes… sometimes it’s better to wish for living and then rejoice when it’s a day of more than just that, when it’s smiles and jokes and a blush to your skin so lovely he goes a little moon-eyed.

It’s an hour later when his phone chimes.

_> > Go to sleep Yasha, you’re exhausted. - N_

Bucky furrows his brow before shooting a text back

_> >How the hell did you know I was up Natalia?_

The reply is almost instantaneous:

_> >You squirm. - N_

_> >Did you bug the room???_

_> >Not that I doubt your abilities, Yasha, but you think I’d leave her completely defenseless? Seriously. Go. To. Sleep. - N_

_> > Tell me where it is so I can give you the finger._

_> >You mean so you can remove it and be her solitary sentry? I think not. - N_

Bucky shakes his head, muttering to the quiet room: “Пошёл на хуй.”

Nat is quick to admonish him.

_> >You kiss her with that mouth? - N_

_> >Go to sleep now, or I will come in there and sedate you. - N_

_> >And before you ask, yes. I absolutely can. And I absolutely will. - N_

Bucky heaves a sigh that comes out more like a groan, typing out an unusually nice reply.

_> >Fine. If there’s even a beep that’s not normal, you hack the fucking security and call code to her room._

_> >Спокойной ночи, Яша. - Н_

Even with Natasha’s reassurance that she is keeping an eye on things, it still takes him a full hour to relax, to trust in his ally and to fall asleep. His mind fights him, wanting to stay vigilant, but his body steadily relaxes, pulling his addled mind along until it drifts into dreamless sleep.

He awakes to slender fingers combing listlessly through his hair. It’s a soothing sensation, the light drag of nails against his scalp and the occasional tug when the fingers snag on knots that have formed in his hair. Bucky allows himself five seconds to indulge, to linger in the darkness he has created for himself, his head turned down to the mattress and resting on his arms.

_Five (it’s Sunday and you can sleep in, tangled in sheets and limbs)_

_Four (the nightmares have plagued him and his pulse only calms down when you pull him close)_

_Three (he pretends to sleep when Steve comes in to tell him to gear up, and he can almost hear your smile when he makes the world’s fakest snore)_

_Two (it’s any day, the world isn’t ending, he has nowhere to be, so he spends it with you)_

_One (it should be every day)_

Rolling his head to stretch the muscles in his neck, inadvertently leaning into your touch, he’s rewarded with a muted giggle. Looking up, he finds you propped up against your pillows, a book propped open in your lap and the most glorious little smile playing on your lips. Bucky hums contentedly when you push a stray lock of hair behind his ear, your fingertips trailing down his jaw.

“Morning,” he greets you, voice still husky and rough with sleep, catching your hand with his to press a kiss to your knuckles.

Your smile widens, your bottom lip getting pulled in between your teeth. Bucky kisses your hand again, repeating until you duck your head and pull it away, trying to suppress your giggles.

“Getting tired of me already?” He feigns surprise and indignation. “Damn it, I knew it. Find myself a girl and I blow it.”

“You’re a dork. A great, big dork who can help me with my homework.”

“Now that wouldn’t be fair,” Bucky argues, letting go of your hand and settling back in his chair. “‘Sides, you’re the expert on…” He tilts his head in an attempt to get a look at the title, failing to catch it. “…whatever that is. I’d probably bring your grade down.”

The look you give him tries to be stern, but there’s that unmistakable spark that can’t be hidden, a joy that refuses to stay undercover. Bucky can feel his heart soar a little. You’re scheduled for another bout of treatments today, but at least there’s this; a good start, your smile and knowing you’ll be here to fight another day.

“I’m sure you’ll do your best,” you finally say, and it feels like you’re talking about more than just helping out with school.

“Yeah,” he replies, knowing he is definitely not just talking about your assignments. “I always will.”


End file.
